


Drink (Split the Night Wide)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [63]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Jewish Holidays, Survivor Guilt, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Every year, Angela promises herself that she is not going to get drunk during Seder, and every year, she does.Or,Something about it, the celebration of survival, rubs Angela the wrong way.  To survive is not always a happy thing.





	Drink (Split the Night Wide)

**Author's Note:**

> i have literally been trying to write passover fic since 2017... well THIRD TIME IS THE CHARM... i always didnt have time bc i put off cleaning too much, lol
> 
> but here we are

Every year, Angela promises herself that she is not going to get drunk during Seder, and every year, she does.  The requisite four glasses of wine and her lightweight status do not help, of course, but neither does the liquor she consumes before they ever begin.  Fareeha chides her, when she returns to their quarters intoxicated, kisses her partner goodnight with the taste of liquor on her breath.

“This isn’t like you,” Fareeha says, and it is true—mostly.  Before she began dating Fareeha, who never drinks out of commitment to her own faith, Angela used to drink far more, but insofar as Fareeha knows, Angela is the sort of person who never wants more than a single, small glass of wine at dinner.

“’M sorry,” Angela mumbles into Fareeha’s shoulder, and she _is_ , is sorry that she is drunk, yes, but sorry for something far greater, too.

A sigh from Fareeha, “It’s alright.  I just wish you’d talk about it.”

What can Angela say?  How can she explain?  Passover is a story of liberation, of survival, of knowing that God will always provide, that somehow, one’s people will _always_ persist, and it ought to be hopeful.

So how does she get here?

## I. Kadesh

First, the kiddush, a benediction, the recitation of the blessing proclaiming the holiday.  They drink, all of them, a glass of wine when they are done, reclining as they do so.  _We recline because we are free_ , and she is, she _is_ , is no longer trapped in that time, in that place, has been brought out of the Omnic Crisis and into this, the better, gentler future. 

Or, what ought to be a gentler future.  Angela does not feel she has been particularly delivered from anything, as she returns again and again to battlefields not unlike the one upon which her parents were taken from her, where she alone was spared. 

But that is not the fault of her God, for she lived, she lived and was brought forth and she—she goes back, _she_ does, of her own volition.

(Or maybe she still has not left.  Maybe the reason she takes herself to places where she relives her trauma, again and again, is because when she closes her eyes, she is trapped there still, in the rubble of her hometown, and returning to similar places is the only way to show herself that _that_ is a memory, and _this_ is real.)

Wine for joy.  She drinks, and does not feel it.

## II. Urchatz

As a doctor, Angela is required to wash her hands many times per day.  Every time, she is thorough, is excruciatingly careful that nothing should remain that pollutes her hands, no dirt nor germ to irritate or infect her patients—yet, her hands are never clean.

Now, as she washes them in the holiest of ways, strips herself of everything but her skin—hates that, for her, her rings are included in this, while those around her may leave theirs on, their unions a part of them always—she knows that her hands will _never_ be clean again. 

Still, she says the blessing, pretends that all is fine, pretends that she has never seen blood upon her hands, nor taken a life, broken that holiest of orders, that she ought to preserve life above all things. 

In theory, her hands are clean enough, now, to partake in the meal, not to soil it, but she knows that there are some things which cannot be washed free, and she _will_ dirty this, as she dirties everything, brings impurity to the table in places the water cannot reach, in her heart and in her mind.

## III. Karpas

Despite what she is thinking, what she is feeling, she recites easily the blessing over the parsley, by rote.  This has always been the easiest part for her, saying what is right—to know what is right is easy enough, to repeat the words, to say what it is that others need to hear from her.  Far harder is acting in accordance with her speech, and doing, too, what she ought.

When she tastes the parsley it is not unpleasant, in and of itself, is not unpalatable, but it reminds her, as too many things do, of the days afterwards, before rescue workers arrived, when it was just her, a single child wandering the remains of her village, eating what she could find to fill her aching stomach.  Grass, tree bark, leaves, and all of it tasting of her tears, until she had no tears left.

Parsley, dipped in salt water, is not so different.

(But it is—hers is a memory of desperation, yes, but of solitude, also, a lone child struggling to survive, and not 600,000 people all together, forced to labor and for what?  The smallest of rations, painstakingly torn from the earth, year after year after year.  What is a week, in the face of that?)

## IV. Yachatz

It is never Angela who breaks the matzah, could not be.  She is a doctor, but still, her hands shake, and every time she tried this alone, she shattered it.

Yes, it is meant to be broken, but there are correct ways to break, and there are incorrect ones—there are ways that suit a purpose, and those that do not.

(Angela has a purpose, she does, to heal and to protect, and she tells herself that she suits it just fine, but while that may be so, it was not the breaking that made her fit for such, for she _always_ wanted to do as much.  If anything, all the ways in which she broke, and has broken herself since, have made her job that much harder.)

A surgeon’s hands ought to be precise, ought to be able to handle something so simple as this, the breaking of a matzah, but hands that are steady enough to hold a scalpel (to hold a gun) cannot perform this task.

So she watches, as the matzah is broken, hands balled into fists at her side.

## V. Maggid

A second glass of wine is poured, and this, the Haggadah, is the hardest part. 

Or—no.  The difficult begins, instead, with the four questions.  It falls to the youngest son to ask, “Mah nishtanah…” he begins, and Angela knows _that was her._

The last time she did this, in the before, the last time with her parents, it was her who asked the questions, even though, traditional as her father was, he would only have had a son ask.  To them, then, she was a son—always will be, because they died before she ever realized who and what she was, died before she could tell them that she was a daughter, that her name was not—she was a son, not _Angela._

(She wants to drink.  The wine is _right there_ , but if she does now, her glass newly filled for the coming blessing, it would be too conspicuous.  Better to wait until the meal, when no one will notice how many times her glass is refilled.)

The Haggadah is recited, the pact with God, the suffering, the plagues—and that is it, the worst part.  Passover, it is called, for the last and worst of the plagues, the killing of the eldest sons, all of them, except their people, who were spared.

Angela was a son, when her town was destroyed—the eldest, the only—and it is she alone who was spared, she alone whom the Omnics did not kill.  Could freedom possibly have been worth this?

Did they not feel guilty, the children, for having been chosen?  Surely, some of them must have known the other firstborn sons, and some of those sons were wicked, yes, but others?  Ought they all to have died for one man’s pride?

This, she can never accept.  She knows what it was to be spared, and the guilt chokes her still.

So she struggles, struggles to be there, to sit in silence, struggles with the reminder of what it was, to have been spared, struggles with the question of who—what—that makes her.  No one here knows that she was ever anyone else before she was Angela, and she wonders what she would be to them, if they knew, what she would be to her God. 

(She wants to stop thinking—drinking can help with that.)

The rest of the story washes over her, and when it is time to drink, when the ten drops have been spilled and the blessings said, she drains her glass fastest.

## VI.  Rachtzah

Wash, again.  Be pure, be clean, and know that no matter what anyone says, the survivors were never pure again.

How could they have been?  How could anyone see such suffering as there was that day, and not be transformed by it?

Every eldest son, every one—the highest to the lowest, the youngest to the oldest.  How many innocents? 

In her town, the smallest in the district, 300 people died, and in the surrounding towns, larger than her own, an additional 3000.  _That_ is too many for her, 3,300 lives.  How could anyone have fathomed what it was to survive hundreds of thousands more? 

It is a night for questions, but she cannot ask this one.  A secret: there are _right_ questions, and there are _wrong_ questions.  There always have been, and always will be.

(But she wants to know: how did they justify it, so many deaths for only one man’s decision?  How did they thank their God?  They were slaves, yes, and wanted to be free—but the other slaves, those who were of different faiths, their sons were killed too.  For whose freedom?  They were saved because they were righteous, or so they are told, but what sin did the other slaves commit, that made them as bad as the Pharaoh who enslaved them?  What does it mean to value one’s freedom, one’s safety, one’s life, above all others’?)

Wash again, and know this: every survivor has blood on their hands.

## VII.  Motzi

The matzah is raised, two whole with the half, and two blessings are said.  One for the bread, as ought always to be done, and the second about the mitzvah to eat matzah for Passover.

Nothing more about the suffering, for now, only the blessings.  As if it were so easy to forget what was seen, what was done, what was suffered.

(As if, when she wakes at night, Angela cannot still taste it, the ash on her tongues, cannot still smell the burning of the buildings and the rotting of the blood, sickly-sweet as it turned.  As if she cannot still feel the cold, the hunger, the fear, as if she is not still there, always.  But it is not allowed, to feel that now, for they are being thankful that they have anything to eat at all—that, at least, she can understand.)

## VIII.  Matzah

Everyone at the table takes a piece of the matzah, both of them, the whole and the half.  Strange, to distinguish them now—neither is whole, when pieces are taken out, but a difference remains, nonetheless, and an important one. 

Something, once broken, will never be the same as the rest. 

But they taste the same, in her mouth, the one that was broken and the one that was whole, she could not tell you which was which.  Why should it matter, when or how the matzah was split?  Is it not all the same?

(It is not, to her God, must not be, or they would not do this, would not distinguish between the two.  And maybe everyone else knows, can feel something different, that she cannot—maybe it is her failing, that she does not understand.)

This is a question she could ask, were she not so ashamed to admit that there are things she does not know, and were questioning not such a painful memory.

Perhaps later, some other day, with a rabbi and in private. 

Perhaps not.

She reclines, and she eats, and she tries to banish all questions from her mind.

## IX.  Maror

Now, they eat the bitter herb—horseradish, tonight.  They say it represents the bitterness of slavery, and the charoset Angela dips it in does nothing to counteract the taste.

It is unpleasant, but in a way that is comfortable, is familiar. 

(She, too, has eaten unpalatable things to survive, remembers putting in her mouth whatever it was she could find.)

Less so is the lesson that accompanies it.  This, they eat sitting up, because it is from before they were freed.  That bitterness, they say, is over now, is in the past.

But how could it be?  How could anyone survive such a thing, and not taste it for a lifetime?

(Angela does, has a garden she has grown herself, just in case, so that the next time something happens, she knows that she can eat, and that is only in the most literal of senses.  The rest of it lingers, in its own way, and she wishes that there were something she might drink to wash it down, anything.)

_More wine_ , she thinks, and the questions might leave her—but she cannot drink yet.  The meal has not started, and it would not do to chase this suffering with something so sweet.

## X.  Korech

Before the Temple was destroyed, there was an obligation to eat lamb, to have it between the matzah and the herb.

Now, they have no Temple, have nothing but an echo of what once was, “Kein asah Hillel…” they say, as if that were ever enough.

But once, it was.  Once, bitterness led to something greater, to freedom, and there is something there, that Angela can almost taste, around the rest.

(Something like this: that suffering is not without gain, that it is necessary to lead one down the right path, and she thinks, _Was my suffering worth it?_ Yes, and no.  She would endure anything, to save the people she has, but she thinks she need not have suffered to become the woman she is, thinks she might have been on the same path regardless.  There, her ability to comprehend the necessity of it all slips away.  Why must they suffer, in order to do what is right and good?)

At least she understands why they eat this, understands what it is to go through the motions, to perform an action one knows is merely an echo of something greater that came before.

It can be hard, letting go.

## XI.  Shulchan Orech

They begin with an egg, dipped in salt water for mourning.

Officially, they mourn the loss of the temple, and with it, the lamb, the loss of the ability to exist as a people in one place, in one time, and to observe as they were told they ought.  Angela does this, she _does_ , imagines what it would be to be unified, to be fully enmeshed in her community, to not have felt the disconnect she did when her parents died, and she spent several years alone, going through motions she could not yet understand.

Unofficially, she mourns something else—the deaths.

(It is not right, she knows, to mourn them, is not right to think of those who died in the plague, for their deaths were a necessary thing, so that the thing Angela wants—the return to oneness—might be possible.  But what Angela wants is a _people_ not a _place_ , and she cannot justify any deaths for that, and certainly cannot _celebrate_ them.  But who is she to judge God?  She has killed, too.)

She should not, but she does, for she knows what it was, for the survivors, knows what it is to lose a part of one’s family, and have that be forever missing.  To wish it on anyone would be inhumane.

She mourns for the mothers, too.

More wine—not required, but allowed.  It washes out the nothing-taste of the rest of the food she eats. 

No one counts her cups.

## XII.  Tzafun

Out of hiding comes the afikomen matzah, broken and now divided among the table.  As far as a dessert goes, it is neither sweet nor rich, not filling in any particular way—but as a symbol, it is sufficient, and more than.

If anything, Angela wishes it were perhaps a bit _less_ pointed than it is, this symbol of sacrifice, of reclaiming the piece of oneself that was lost.

It was broken, was taken, and now is forced back into the light—no less painful than before, but they must say that there is value in it, too, must act as if it were the lamb, and eat it, as a symbol that the message is understood.

(This, Angela understands: if something breaks in the right way, then it can always be restored, always holds value.  But what of those matzahs that shatter in her hand, which do not snap in half so neatly?   They are not reclaimed, are not reabsorbed, are useless, in a ritual such as this.  If the matzah breaks, it must be in pieces great enough to use, and she—no, not her—some _things_ are shattered beyond division.)

If they only follow, and obey, all that was taken from them will be restored, in the end.

And Angela?  She cannot.  Cannot because she has doubts, because she has questions, because she has spoken and not acted in accordance with her words, because she has—she has committed the gravest sin of all, has killed.

A life, taken, cannot be restored.

## XIII.  Berach

Now, the blessing after the meal and—something for which she is very grateful—wine, again.  By this point, the others have noticed how much more quickly she drinks it, but they can say nothing about the matter; the meal is over, and they have other things to attend to, so that they may finish before midnight.

A cup must be poured, left in the center of the table, and a door opened for Elijah.

Then, they invite him in, and Angela knows he will not come—not to this table, anyway, not while she is here to sully it.

But she says the words, anyway, does what she must to fulfill what obligations she can.  That he will not come does not matter, now, what matters is that, for the rest of them, she tries.

## XIV.  Hallel

The door is closed—no Elijah—and they sing, all of them, songs of praise.  Praise for the God who led them out of out of slavery, and into a better, brighter world, yes, for the God who set before them the rule that they might live properly, rules Angela could not abide by, but also praise for the role as creator, for all that was done not only for their people, but the universe as a whole.

By now, she has had enough to drink that she does not mind, terribly, that her voice is far from ideal as she sings along.

There is a feeling of safety, some have described, of contentment in the knowledge that they will be led out of any hardship, but that is not what Angela feels, now.  If anything, the thought that she might be doomed to survive again, and again, and again—it terrifies her.

Still, she sings. 

If she cannot do as she ought, at least she can say the words.

A blessing, more wine.

## XV.  Nirtzah

Now comes acceptance, the hardest part of all.  For the rest of them, it is over, just like that, another Seder has passed, and they will scatter into the night, return to their homes, sleep soundly in the knowledge that they are safe, that whatever comes next, they will survive it.

As if that were a comfort, that certainty.  As if survival were not a torment in and of itself.  They smile at each other, they say their goodbyes, they are certain that all of them will still be here, come next Passover.

“Leshanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim,” they say together, _next year in Jerusalem._

## —.

Head swimming, full of alcohol and guilt and the past-present-future of _survival_ , Angela returns to her quarters, where Fareeha is waiting up for her.  When Fareeha asks what is wrong, she does not know what to say.

They—she—survived, and it is a good thing, it _is_ , but there is a pain, there, that will never quite be soothed, not in the way it is supposed to be.  To survive ought to be the reward in and of itself, but it is not discussing that which makes Angela feel safe, is not being around her people, is not knowing that the eyes of God are upon her, is only this: the feeling of Fareeha’s arms around her, now, late at night, the steadiness of her heartbeat beneath Angela’s ear.

Here, a positive of survival: Angela might never have known this, what it was to be loved.

For Fareeha, for the opportunity to spend more time with her, for the chance to save others, that they might, too, know this sort of love—for that, Angela is grateful to have been spared.  For that, she will continue to survive for another year.  For that, she will return to the table.  She is not ready, now, to accept what it is to survive fully, but she will be, the next time she gathers for Passover. 

She will be.

Next year in Jerusalem.

**Author's Note:**

> a not-so-fun but very important thing u can do is to ask any survivors u may know how they feel about holy days. conversations w my grandfather are always... enlightening
> 
> also, i did my part to prepare my house by eating all the bread and bread-byproducts i could while writing this. im so full yall
> 
> anyway, chag pesach kasher vesame’ach! dont be that one uncle who always gets drunk during seder!


End file.
